Breakers

Hardly Art;
2011

Find it at:

Gem Club is an exclusive society: two people, a piano, and a cello. Vocalist Christopher Barnes sings in a quivering whisper, and these minimal accompaniments assure that their sound never becomes louder than a hush. But the Massachusetts duo's debut EP, Acid and Everything, showed just how much emotional intensity you could pack into compositions so spare, and how much could be suggested with so little.

Everything on Breakers, their first full-length, sounds frozen over: icy, quiet, austere. You know that eerie feeling when you find yourself alone in a huge public place that's usually crowded-- maybe a shopping mall or a playing field-- but at that moment is totally empty? This record sounds like a sustained version of that feeling. "I Heard the Party" juxtaposes echoing piano chords and a general sense of unease ("No one could have told you/ Your body would fail you") with the refrain "I heard the party's here" floating across the track like the sound of dried up laughter. The word "party" feels so out of place in a song so pensive and lonely that there's something jarring about the experience. The feeling crops up repeatedly on Breakers: a sense of slow-motion detachment, a suggestion that there were signs of life here once, but you've arrived a couple of hours-- or maybe a couple of weeks-- too late.

In these blaring, hyperactive times, there's something refreshing about a record so comfortable with silence and pause. In that way, the elegance of Breakers' particular brand of minimalism is obliquely reminiscent of James Blake's self-titled album, or even Grizzly Bear's Yellow House. But there's something impenetrable about Breakers: It's not nearly as inviting or inhabitable as the worlds conjured by either of those records. Barnes' voice is haunting and lovely, but it doesn't display enough range to give this material any real emotional variety. Breakers effectively conjures a space unto itself, but it's one that lacks an easy entry point.

Still, Breakers has its moments of beauty. "Lands" begins with a faint pulse of low-end distortion like tiny landmines going off in the background and builds from there. "252" also has a cumulative intensity, and the succinct and powerful "Red Arrow (John)" showcases Kristen Drymala's cello playing. The strings often feel like the most corporeal elements of the whole record-- Barnes' voice takes the shape of breath turned visible on a frigid morning. "Wait until spring sets in," he sings on "Tanager". You get the feeling it's probably going to be a while.